


from a past life (feels like I've saw a ghost)

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: I lived, I loved (I was here) [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, I'm so sorry, M/M, Movie: A Game of Shadows, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Post-Canon, Post-Reichenbach, Ritchie-verse, Sequel, The return of Sherlock holmes, i'm three months late on this, ritchieverse, soft!watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9870272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: It's the sound of my name on his lips that cements it. I could search the whole world over and never find anything remotely close. It's rough around the edges poetic. Surely God could not be so cruel."John."[SEQUEL TO: What the Water Gave Me but can be read as a stand alone fic]





	

**[UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT]**

 

 

Dear Reader,

I feel as if I am living a parallel life. I am the thin string connecting the past with the soul shattering present and it has never been this unstable. I say hello and I mean goodbye. I seek gaslights like fireflies to a flame. I see his face in every corner, fail to catch him in every dream. I smile and it fractures.

Even now, one year into a sort of half life, I continue to be stopped on the street. Strangers eyes shimmer with a pity that I cannot stomach and every I'm sorry for your loss tastes like gunpowder in my throat. Like a loaded pistol on the nights where I pray for strength and beg a man who is not there for forgiveness.

My own wife could not counter such a grief - she has moved in with her mother and it pains me to say but we're in the process of divorce. Gone is a potential Watson infant toddling about, baring the name William. Her parting words were these - "I'm sorry darling but I cannot compete with a ghost."

I hadn't the strength to argue, not that my defense would carry any conviction. My detective is resting at the bottom of a cauldron and I cannot help but throw myself over that snow covered balcony everyday of my life. I am still standing at the falls, I've never left. I am here in my own home and yet I am not. I'd felt my mortal soul leave my body on that day and, though my pulse thrums, I am a dead man walking.

There you have it.

Doctor John H. Watson is a fraud.

   

                                        Sincerely, 

                                            J.Watson 

* * *

 

 

Darling,

My Dear Holmes. I keep forgetting to breathe. I keep asking myself if you're doing the same, I keep reaching for your side of the bed. The side Mary was never to sleep on. My God I wanted to close my eyes then and pretend you'd only gone on holiday but I found it difficult when even the sheets no longer smell of you.

As such, Mary's mother shouted in my face six months prior and I had to bite my tongue against the slew of obscenities I wanted to toss in her direction. Wretched woman.

"You outta be locked up some place where you can't be moping about tearing apart people's lives. The man is dead and you go on as if he's going to come strolling through the door at any minute. You've sold the practice and abandoned your own wife, tell me how is this going to bring him back? Hmm?"

I remember every word and wish I did not. No amount of love or anger will resurrect you, I know this. She is not wrong. Regarding Mary, our divorce was finalized recently though I couldn't pinpoint an exact date. She said you'd always been the third wheel in our relationship, forever pushing her out. The stitch unraveled. That's just as well, we were ill suited for one another. But you and I; we were an unexpected gift. I cannot accept your time away. I cannot call it what it is.

 

Gladstone misses you though his left hind leg is forever weaker than the right. You're to thank for that, of course you bloody are. I miss you, you insufferable bastard. You selfish man, you took yourself from me. From London who suffers in your absence. Just last week, Inspector Lestrade made the papers but not in a way that one would imagine. As it turns out, the old chap can take a bullet like no man can. He is recovering well but I cannot help but wonder: would it have happened had you been here?

 

And dear Mrs. Hudson, _Nanny_. She is quieter these days, tired. I can see it in her eyes, her shoulders how they sag as she mounts the stairs. I've neglected to mention that, haven't I? I am residing once more at 221B Baker Street. It remains unchanged; even the drapes bare the scorch marks; like bruises they are. Evidence of damage. When asked why our old rooms appeared as though we'd never left, Mrs. Hudson sniffled and excused herself from the room. I shall abstain from that topic in the future.

She'd sealed up your rooms in particular. Walking into them felt like stepping over your grave and tripping over everything we left behind. I don't mean the slipper still cradling three hand rolled cigarettes, you'd know this if you were here.

_If._

What a horrid word.

My dear Holmes. Sherlock. Arsehole. Doghearted shadow of a man. Cockered selfish excuse of a- Am I really so easy to leave? This is a mess, I am a mess. Come home.

 

Please, man, if you love me.

Yours,

J.Watson

* * *

**[UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT]**

 

Dear Reader,

It could've been any ordinary Thursday. It should've came and gone as the others before it, one gray blur into the next. I've somewhat of a routine in my life after him, post-Holmes.

 

Monday: vendors market 2pm-5pm, volunteer work

Tuesday: assist homeless network - a homage to him 1pm on the nose, gambling

Wednesday: odd jobs at the surgery, part time employment. no set hours.

subvert Mrs. Turner next doors predictable attempts at match-making, think of him

Thursday: stop by the pastry shoppe for Mrs. Hudson. marzipan, raspberry tarts

Friday-Sunday: rest, catch up on correspondence, read, think of him

 

Rather boring and quiet, yes? But secure, certain. Comfortable. Instead, I'd opted to stay home and busy myself with tasks that hardly required fixing. Afternoon brought an unexpected knock at the door of 221B.

"Doctor Watson, there's a parcel for you. You'll need to sign for it," Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.

Startled from a mid afternoon nap, I stretched and groaned; irritated at having been interrupted. "Can it not be delivered tomorrow?"

"He says it's important," she replied. Her voice carried through the hall, muffled.

"Send him up."

Reluctantly I slip my feet into a pair of house shoes, tie a dressing gown about my waist and run my fingers through sleep tousled hair. Cheekbones are dusted with two day old scruff and there's a pipe to my right. His, of course. I'd fallen asleep holding it and it had caused a slight indentation in my palm; typical. Passing a mirror, I note how worn down and haggard I appear. There's nothing for it.

There are footfalls on the stairs, light but steady. The first step creaks under the weight and I make a final last ditch attempt at appearing awake; alive. Blink, blink, blink, rub eyes.

 

**+**

 

"Doctor Watson?," a low voice asks.

A tall lithe form in postal uniform with a satchel at his hip, jaunts a chin in my direction. He is thin with a well defined facial structure that stands at odds with a unkempt mustache - not you then. You've a personal vendetta against facial hair unless it serves a useful purpose. You would never.

"I am," I confirm though the man sets the hair on my arms to rising.

"Package for you. Sign here." The postman's hands are hidden beneath black leather gloves and I catch myself wondering how a person with such low wages could afford such luxury. A gift likely as Christmas was two months ago at most. Three? I avoid clocks and calendars lately much like plague doctors guarding themselves against bacteria. They do nothing but break a person down.

I take the proffered pencil and scratch my name upon the paper next to a bold X. Smudged, lazy: _J.Watson._

Retrieving the document, the postman scans our the sitting room. "So this is his rooms eh? The great Sherlock 'olmes."

I nod, eyes catching on his chair. It's a tombstone in itself. "Yes."

Unbidden, the man begins to walk around the room. It makes me feel naked, exposed, but I do not stop him. He skims his fingers over a pipe collection that I could not pack away. They're blanketed in a light sheen of dust; _elegant_ you would've said.

"Just 'tween you an' me, I never believed a word of that hogwash. Holmes was a man an' nothin' more. He fancied himself somethin' grand and odd."

I can hear the pulse in my ears, each word throbs as if someone were prodding a wound that never sealed. "It's about time you see yourself to the door," I grit. I am on the edge of pent up release; one foot over the Falls and the other in 221B. I will not hesitate to give the man a swift kick in the arse should he refuse to comply.

 _Was_ , he'd said. Like a churchhouse burned to cinders - _rebuild it_.  We can't.

The snake like man stroked his chin, smirking arrogantly. " 'sokay doc, you can tell me. I won't breathe a word of it; ya made 'em up didn't ya? E'ry last case."

Bile rises in my throat, I can feel my chest heating. My eyes burn with unspent tears. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was correct when she said I should take up boxing or a similar aggressive sport. I hold anger inside of me like a flame growing out of control. It was only a matter of time before it tore its way out of my throat.

I latch onto the man's lapels with both hands. "You say one more word about him, you pox marked devil..." Voice is practically a snarl at this point.

The man begins to laugh. It knocks loose something inside of me. I close my eyes and hear echos of that very voice and then-

"Alright, alright old man. You can stand down now."

The room begins to spin as a vial of brandy is pressed against my lips.

 

**+**

 

 

I come to with the taste of it on my tongue; half awake, half dreaming. Two buttons on the slate grey button up I'd bought a fortnight ago, are undone.

"My dear Watson," says a voice like silk. "I had no idea you'd be so affected."

I catch him in my line of vision, blurry though it is. Perhaps there is a sixth stage of grief and I've managed to evade it until now. Madness. I've conjured up his ghost many times but never this intensely. "...Holmes?," I croak.

Sunlight reaches out to caress a dark curl, briefly, before two hands deftly tug the heavy drapes together and cover him in muted light. It is a place that should never hold him. Grief and darkness are my burden to carry, not his.

He turns and shrugs as if to say _It is what it is_. "Did you miss me?" A strained smile follows and even this is another raw wound that I've overlooked in my mourning.

"But you're-you're buried under that great maple tree. I-I wanted to ensure you'd have something nice to look at, I-" There's a crack in my voice that wasn't there before.

He steps forward, hesitant. Upon registering the shock evident upon my face, he places both palms on my shoulders and squeezes, hard. This close, I can smell the spice of his aftershave, a whisper of pipe tobacco, the streets of London.

It's the sound of my name on his lips that cements it. I could search the whole world over and never find anything remotely close. It's rough around the edges poetic. Surely God could not be so cruel.

_"John."_

 

Feeling faint, I lean against him. I allow my head to drop on the bony jaunt of his collarbone. Nearly inaudibly, he gasps and shudders in surprise. Had he thought I wouldn't want to put my hands on him? I have dreamed of nothing else. We do not speak. He feels unworthy of such a welcome - it's obvious in how he holds himself. Stiff as a board, chin brushing against my hair. I can feel every puff of air tickling the strands.

Silently, I take both of his arms and wrap them around my waist. He latches on like a man drowning; desperate for relief but there is an air of hesitance about him. As if it feels like he's no longer allowed to indulge in such matters of the heart.

I'm hoping for a sturdier tone when I speak but it comes out weak, tinny. "Why?"

There are thousands of inquiries that die an instantaneous death when he opens his mouth. "You see," he says, chin resting on my head. "I went away in order to preserve this." He gestured between our bodies, "Sit, my love." 

The entire fiasco took hours to explain and I will not share the details here as they're of a sensitive nature. Once finished, he collapsed upon the sofa with a heavy sigh. His time away had taken a toll on his body and that complex beautiful head of his. 

"Up," I said, jabbing a finger at his chest. 

"I cannot move," he groaned. My Holmes, ever the dramatic. I scooped him up, one arm low on his waist and the other around his shoulders and walked us to my rooms. The thought of entering his old quarters was something I was not prepared to face yet, even with him at my side. 

 

**+**

 

Lying on my back on the firm bed, I still feel as if I've lost something. 

"Uumfpt." Suddenly there's a solid weight draping itself over me as if I were a sofa in need of an afghan. Every cell in my body knows this shape, the rough feel of five o'clock shadow as he nuzzles against my neck, my Holmes. My beloved Sherlock. My dear man brought forth from a sleepless death, how I love him.

"You have all of my love," he says, arms sliding under my back to flatten against my shoulder blades. The name of love has never felt more glorious than it does as he speaks of it. 

I am not a romantic, by nature, but he brings it out in me. I cannot help but kiss his temple, run my fingers through his hair. "I do not doubt that. My heart is yours, Sherlock Holmes." We hold one another then in the four corners of my bed, London bustling outside and the sun waning. We do not dare close our eyes. I map the breadth of his chest with my hands, my mouth. In turn, he babbles incomprehensibly about love and passion, crime and my name.  _John,_ he moans.  _John_ as I shut the drapes,  _John_ as we shed our clothing. Mary was right -- she could not compete with a ghost, dead or living. There isn't a soul alive that dares compare, for better or worse. 

 

**+**

 

We've miles yet and his face will be in The Strand once more (though not this entry - not yet) within the week, additionally there is Mrs. Hudson to deal with as she does not know. Holmes and I will quarrel and makeup many times over the years and when our bodies grow weary, we shall grow old and gray together. Watson & Holmes. 

But for now there is the steady drumming of his heart against mine - the water gives back what it had taken. I want you to know how I loved him: with every breath. 

 

                                                                                     Sincerely,

                                                                                              J.Watson 

 

 

 

 


End file.
